


sweet conversation

by swishandflickwit



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: A little angst, F/M, Marichat, Marichat au, Miraculous Ladybug - Freeform, SADrien, and baking goodness, anyone say red velvet cupcakes?, but a lot of tender, marichat fan fiction, marichat ff, marichat fluff, miraculous ladybug fan fiction, miraculous ladybug ff, sad!chat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 11:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishandflickwit/pseuds/swishandflickwit
Summary: “Kiss the Baker,” he read upside down before he smirked, trepidation at his lack of experience clearly forgotten. “Well, you can't argue with hardcore apron logic like that.”Marichat + late night baking





	sweet conversation

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song The Nearness of You by Ella Fitzgerald.

"Rough day?”

Marinette didn't have the heart to be surprised. Besides, it _had_ been a terrible day.

—terrible days being a side effect of death, after all.

“I've had better, yeah.”

Chat Noir's figure slunk across the length of her railing till he was beside her, him seated precariously on the handrail while she rested on her elbows beside him. She sighed.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He didn't answer. That was okay. She wasn't sure she wanted to open that door either. She didn't think she could lie to him, not when she knew the shape of his grief and the color of his despair. It thrummed in her own veins till her very blood felt inky with sorrow and her lungs weighted with bereavement. Though it was unbeknownst to him, they were one and the same—a perfect match of melancholy.

How she hated it.

Any assurance she offered was tainted with this lie. If she was Ladybug, they could have leaned on each other. But he left so swiftly, before she could offer her support, and there had been no time to exchange soothing words. Now he was here but she was in the wrong form, the same person but with the mismatched set of shoulders to carry a hero's burden. She should have told him to leave. She was fixated on her own failures and lost in the sordid memories—memories he knew but that she couldn't even share without revealing herself—of the day that she ought to have been the last person dispensing lenity.

But she hated to be alone more.

“Do you want to come inside?”

“What… what about your parents?”

The look in his eyes—desperate and tortured with the same agonizing need for company—told her he would have accepted regardless whether they were present or not, so long as she was offering. But she had always had exceptional luck, recent events notwithstanding.

“They're out of town. Come inside.”

“Okay,” he answered, leaping off the metal barrier in rapid but graceful movements that spoke of his relief.

She may not be able to tell him she was Ladybug, but she could offer her comfort all the same.

They stowed away inside, seeking respite from the chilly November air and finding it within the confines of the Dupain-Cheng living room. Chat Noir opened his mouth, no doubt to ask whether he could take a seat on the couch, when Marinette threw the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders towards the cushions and made her way to the kitchen.

“Marinette?”

She shot him an arch smile before she rifled through her cupboards for a pair of specific objects.

“We’re in the home of bakers, _monsieur chaton._ ” She let out a quiet whoop of triumph when she found what she was looking for and hid it behind her back.

“Er…”

She laughed at his, admittedly, adorably bemused expression before beckoning him to her side.

“So I hope you brought your baking game.”

“I don't actually know how to—” When he was close enough, she sprung on him, a shadow enveloping his vision and effectively cutting him off. Before he could tell up from down she had tied an apron around his waist.

“Kiss the Baker,” he read upside down before he smirked, trepidation at his lack of experience clearly forgotten. “Well, you can't argue with hardcore apron logic like that.”

He puckered his lips in an exaggerated manner as he jokingly aimed for her face. Marinette giggled, stopping his unsurprisingly accurate traction with her fingers.

“Uh, uh, uh! We earn our keep around here.”

“Oh la, la,” he read on _her_ apron then waggled his eyebrows at her. “Is that a promise?”

She rolled her eyes before she directed his pouting face towards the pantry, calling out basic ingredients they would need as she brought out the baking instruments. Brownies would have been the easy option, chocolate chip cookies even easier seeing as her family always had frozen cookie dough at the ready. But they both needed the distraction, and maybe the quiet accomplishment that came with creating something from scratch—

“What are we making?” he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement.

—even something as small as a cupcake.

“How do you feel about Red Velvet?”

He smiled.

“Do you have to ask?”

It went without saying, he _loved_ the color red.

Though he had never worked in a kitchen before, he took instruction very well and they worked in perfect harmony—as they had always done. He mixed flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt in a bowl while she preheated the oven then beat butter and sugar in an electric mixer. He brought out eggs and cracked them in a bowl.

“Okay so put them in—wait, no! Not all at once, Chat!” she shrieked.

“Sorry!” he dropped the bowl before he scratched at his black ear in abashment. “I got excited!”

“You'll have to do better than that for kisses,” she teased. He sauntered back to her side.

“Oh, so it _was_ a promise?”

She bit her lip. “Work on those skills and we'll see.”

She urged him to pick up the bowl once more. “One at a time,” she instructed, guiding him gently with one hand while she controlled the pulse of the mixer with the other. They continued without incident, Chat apparently having taken her words seriously because he paid special attention to her directions and mirrored her every move.

(And was it her imagination or had he not taken his eyes away from her lips?)

Though she _did_ have to take the food coloring from Chat when he wanted to be a little _too_ liberal on the droplets.

“Aw, come on Marinette! You can never have too much red.”

“Exactly _who_ is the baker here?”

He pointed at his apron. She supposed that was her fault. Nevertheless, she rolled her eyes.

“Don't think I don't know what you're doing. You're trying to match it to Ladybug's suit!”

She would know, she knew that outfit like the back of her hand. But she was surprised when he scoffed.

“Who said anything about Ladybug?” he swooped closer to her, till his breath was a cool, sweet sigh along her lips. “I want your blush.”

She could feel the heat of his body with the lack of space between them. The intensity of his gaze stole her breath and she felt warmth bloom from her chest to her face. He traced a fingertip along the apple of her cheek, a ghost of a touch she felt all the way to her toes. She could feel herself blush harder.

“That's the one,” he whispered.

Her tongue darted out to wet her suddenly parched lips and those emerald orbs tracked its path. He blinked owlishly, as if loathe to miss her every move.

This was getting out of hand.

“You _can_ actually,” she sort of squawked and Chat Noir stepped back, either from the high frequency of her voice or because he knew exactly what he was doing and got his intended effect from her.

 _“Pardon-moi?”_ he beamed, mischief bringing a shine to his gaze.

Well, that confirmed it. It was the latter. She restrained herself from sticking her tongue out at him, though barely. She frowned at him with devoted obstinateness.

“You can have too much red for this, cause then you affect the consistency of the batter.”

“Well, we wouldn't want that,” he nodded sagely before a crooked smile stole across his lips, “I'm nothing if not consistent.”

She rolled her eyes though her teeth gleamed under the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen even as she tried to hide her amusement.

She put him in charge of pouring the dry mixture into the bowl beneath the mixer, handing him a measuring cup so he could control the amount he put in. When he had exhausted the contents, he got ready for the next step by placing a dozen muffin cups of ranging colors into the cupcake pan. Together, they spooned batter into the paper-lined cups—Marinette in expert efficiency while Chat Noir did so with varying degrees of success, getting batter onto himself than the tray more often than not, probably doing so on purpose because he was impatient for a taste. Exasperated, Marinette handed him the used wire whisks and the bowl.

“Have at it.”

He jumped and pumped his fist in the air.

“Sweet!” he winked at her.

His joy was bubbly and infectious. It was easy to forget what brought them together in the first place. They had been at this superhero gig for two years now, sometimes she forgot they were only teens. Ladybug’s legend was 5000 years old and after a day such as this, she could feel each and every one of those lifetimes on her shoulders. But then Chat Noir scrunched his nose charmingly or laughed, free and uninhibited, and his delight in simple things reminded her—

There was time for youth, yet.

He stopped mid-lick at the expression on her face, a cross between curious and content.

“What?”

She wanted to tell him he was wonderful and brave and strong. But she didn't want to cloud the moment with laden sentimentality so she shook her head, swiping at the batter that had somehow splayed on his cheek before popping her thumb in her mouth. His eyes widened, before they narrowed in poorly-concealed hunger.

And it wasn't for batter.

“Nothing,” she murmured coyly before turning her back on him. She grinned when she heard him huff frustratedly.

She popped the tray in the oven and asked Chat Noir to clean up. After all, he had started on the bowl and whisk—albeit with his tongue. He whined for a bit, probably at her blasé manner, before she promised to teach him how to frost if he did so. Easily bribed ( _men are weak,_ she cackled internally), he washed the used apparatus in record time and finished just as she was scooping vanilla cream cheese frosting into a second piping bag.

The timer sounded and Marinette brought out the tray from the oven. From the corner of her eye, she could see Chat swoon. She couldn't blame him—the cupcakes smelled _divine_. The scent of vanilla and butter wafted through the air around them, permeating their senses so that they could almost taste it. For Marinette, it reminded her of her favorite recollections growing up, the genesis of her family's bakery, the tutelage of her parents in this very kitchen, her surrounded by sweets—both the victual and affectionate kind. Reflection painted a reverie on her face. Chat Noir tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and she was brought back to the present.

“It must have been nice,” he mused quietly, almost unconsciously, as he took in the eclectic amalgamation of Asian and European bric-a-brac that made up her home. “Growing up here.”

She assessed her surroundings, trying to see what he saw, and smiled. “I have no complaints.”

“I wish I knew you,” he suddenly said.

She got what he meant. They weren't supposed to talk about their home life but based on what little he had revealed over the couple of years, his wasn't exactly stellar. She couldn't imagine living in a home that wasn't as loving and supportive as her own, couldn't imagine how she would have turned out if she didn't know the kindness of her own parents—a kindness she constantly desired to emulate. So for Chat Noir to be who he was, to possess a heart like his, so open and depthless, a well of love he was so willing to give...

He was incredibly resilient, and she admired him so much for that.

She clutched his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re always welcome here. Y-you know that right? Even if my parents are home,” she swallowed around the nervous lump in her throat that told her she was being too forward. “You'll always have a place here. It's the least I can do.”

He looked stricken, but awed too, as if he couldn't believe the words falling from her mouth because he couldn't possibly deserve it.

She gripped his hand harder.

“Thank you, but that’s too much. I couldn't possibly—I mean, you've given me enough,” he stammered. “Your friendship means everything to me.”

They often flirted and bantered and endeavoured to keep things light between them, they were each other's reprieve from the stress and solemnity of their lives. But—for _her_ at least—she did her best to let him know, in her own unassuming way, that she was someone he could rely on.

“It isn't nearly enough,” she confessed, “but I mean it.”

There was an awkward beat of silence, the kind that came when a barrage of unexpected emotions were bared and the involved parties were unsure how to act or proceed. But it was broken by the timer of her phone, indicating that the cupcakes had sufficiently cooled and—judging by the blush on both their faces—‘saved by the bell’ had never been more prompt or appropriate.

“Frost on?” he simpered broadly, his body humming with anticipation. She couldn't help but mimic him as she gamely exclaimed, “Frost on!”

Since it was Chat Noir's first time, she started them off with a round nozzle and demonstrated a ‘swirl’ style of frosting. At the final rotation, she withdrew and Chat applauded her as he marveled at her perfect technique. She bowed with a flourish that made him proud.

When it was his turn, however, in his eagerness he squeezed the bag too hard and frosting spilled over the sides of the cupcake. He frowned even as Marinette scooped the excess onto the frosting bowl with a spatula.

“You made it look so easy!”

He sounded almost accusatory. She stifled a laugh and nodded.

“Try again,” she encouraged. But with every faux pas, Chat's frustration mounted till he was depositing the crumpled and depleted piping bag on the table and slumping against it. He sighed, defeat lining his shoulders and hunching his back.

“This is hopeless. _I'm_ hopeless.”

She frowned. “Chat…”

“I destroy everything I touch.”

She had a feeling he was talking about more than the frosting on the cupcakes.

“I mean, what kind of power is Cataclysm? A power for destruction? It's any wonder Ladybug even puts up with me. Black cats are nothing but bad luck.”

“Not you,” she averred.

Despite the easy-going smiles and chuckles they had shared throughout the night, she knew his turmoil had been building, and he had reached his boiling point.

“I could have saved her. I could have saved that little girl.”

“Then Ladybug would have died.”

“And that makes it better?” he shouted, and she flinched at the way the bedlam in his voice rang in her ears and reverberated throughout her kitchen tiles. Regret filled his features in quick succession and he held his arms out as if to hug her in apology before he thought better of it, claws closing around the edge of the island.

Her heart broke for him.

“No, but it was a difficult choice.”

And it _had_ been—the Akumas had been  getting progressively motivated, obviously in response to Hawk Moth’s growing desperation. They had always prevailed but today… today was the first civilian casualty they had ever had.

“You did what you had to do,” she told him. She told _herself_. She refused to feel guilty over the difficulties of her job, even as she felt cloying damnation seize her lungs until it was impossible to _breathe_.

“I would have done the same thing,” she assured him and meant it. “I would have saved Ladybug and were the situations reversed, I—” she stopped herself. “ _Ladybug_ would have saved you, too.”

“You think so?” he murmured, hope framing every word, every letter.

“I know so.”

_More than I can ever tell you._

He shook his head. “Still, it should have been me. If I had been more useful instead of always just making a mess of things, then it never would have reached that point and… and that girl would still be alive.”

He propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

“I just feel so guilty, and ashamed. How can I ever face Ladybug again? She must be so disappointed in me.”

That's what his abrupt departure had been about? She gaped, he had to be joking! But his shuddering breaths told her he wasn't and when she hugged him from behind, he was trembling. She felt tears spring to her eyes, his anguish a direct echo of her own.

“I can't speak for Ladybug,” she felt a pang in her heart at the lie, “but I think I know you well enough. No matter what you feel never forget, you are _not_ the villain. You did what you had to, to do the _right_ thing even if it was difficult, because that’s what heroes do. That’s what _you_ do. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes, Chat, cause then you'd know how helpful you are—how _wanted_ you are.”

“Wanted,” he whispered as if he never heard the word, especially in relation to him. It was so simple, to _want_ —so easy to say and a word used rather gratuitously. But it was more than a word, it was a _feeling_ and it was teeming with depth and utterly disarming.

“Yes.”

She let him work through his sobs, rubbing smooth circles onto his back while he caught his breath. He squeezed her hand that she hadn't relinquished from his waist, needing to be near him, needing to _touch_ him, and she understood it for the shattering gratitude that it was.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she whispered into the skin of his neck. She grabbed the second piping bag and handed it to him, grasping his hands and molding herself into the lithe form of him till they were in complete alignment—a hybrid of hope.

“Sometimes we have to break down in order to better build ourselves up,” with her guidance, he began to frost, “and there’s no shame in that.”

With her hands framing his, they made a swirl. It was drooping and lopsided but it was perfect all the more for it. They had made it _together_. She pressed her lips to his shoulder in exultation.

“A kiss for the baker,” she said. “You've earned it.”

“Thank you,” he whispered and again, she knew he was referring to more than the frosting.

He let go of the piping bag and turned to her. She brushed the back of her knuckles along his cheeks in lambent strokes as if she could erase his sadness and raise him anew. In turn, he took her face in his hands, and kissed her cheek.

“A kiss for the baker,” he hummed. “You deserve it. You deserve _more_.”

She felt overcome—with _him_ , the sensation of him on her skin and on her soul. She was awash with all that she wanted to express in that moment but couldn't, because of her identity and because she lacked the words, so it flowed through her eyes in tears instead. He wiped the tracks of her liquid emotion in delicate caresses that left her feeling gentle and weightless, his eyes going back and forth across the planes of her face as if he wanted to take all of her in and she let him. She let him in, heart wide open as he became the blood in her veins and the oxygen in her lungs. He pressed his forehead to hers and wrapped himself around her until they were knitted in bone and sinew and together—

They breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on tumblr!


End file.
